


Compromised

by eternaleponine



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-13
Updated: 2014-04-13
Packaged: 2018-01-19 05:39:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1457770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eternaleponine/pseuds/eternaleponine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha realizes that she might not be able to trust the person she cares most about.  </p>
<p>Contains spoilers for Captain America: The Winter Soldier.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Compromised

+The adrenaline drained from her system as water flowed over her skin, leaving her shaky as well as shaken, but better here than where anyone else could see it. She let herself stay in the shower for longer than was really practical, but she thought maybe she'd earned a few extra minutes away from a world that was crashing down around their ears at an alarming rate.

Everything she knew, or thought she knew, was a lie. That was the base that she was going to have to operate from going forward. Guilty until proven innocent. Question everything, and even when you're convinced, question it again. It was the only way.

She finally turned off the shower and stepped out, reaching for a towel and rubbing her skin dry. She got dressed and draped it around her shoulders, glancing back to make sure she hadn't left anything behind.

Her stomach gave a sudden lurch, like the feeling one got when the floor suddenly dropped out from under one's feet, and her hands started to shake again.

 

She remembered when he'd given it to her. Both in the same place, but not on the same mission, he'd come up behind her, close enough that she could feel the heat of him against her skin, which was mostly bare because she was dressed to impress in a very specific way. "Close your eyes," he'd said.

She'd done it. Without question or hesitation. She'd felt the necklace, light and cool around her throat, and his fingers, so sure with a bow, fumbled a little with the clasp. She'd almost told him to stop, she could do it herself, but it finally slipped into place and his hands slid to her shoulders, resting there. "Okay," he said. "You can open them."

Again she did as she was told, and she had to lean a little closer to the mirror to see the subtle detail of the thing. Just a silver chain at first glance, but once she saw what it really was, she couldn't unsee it. An arrow.

"Now I'll always be with you," he said, "even when I'm not."

He already was, but she didn't say that. Instead she turned in his arms and said, "Kiss me." And he did. Without question or hesitation.

 

_You can't_ , she told herself. _Not right now. There's no such thing as a secure line. Just leave it._

Over and over again she told herself to leave it alone, that now wasn't the time, that she didn't even need to ask the question because she already knew the answer. 

But she didn't. She thought she knew. She wanted to believe that what she thought she knew was true, was an incontrovertible fact, but there was no such thing now. And she should leave it alone, she had to leave it alone because if she didn't she could compromise herself, Steve, Steve's friend, not to mention _him_...

_Wrong again,_ she realized. There were still some facts, some absolute truths, and this was one of them: she was compromised. She had been even before her entire world had started to crumble. And she needed _something_ to hold on to. She needed _something_ to believe in. 

And Steve was good. Steve was a rock, an anchor, maybe even a friend. But he wasn't her best friend. He wasn't Clint.

There was no such thing as a secure line, but she did the best that she could with what she had, which wasn't nearly as much as she would have liked, but her resources were limited now. Still, she kept a trick or two up her sleeve, and if she kept the conversation short enough she might just get away with it.

"Barton."

"Fury's dead."

There was a pause on the other end of the line, a silence that she couldn't read. "I know," he said finally.

_How? Why?_ But she couldn't ask if he knew because someone else had told him first, or he knew because he'd known before it happened. Had he played some part in it? As far as she knew, he was halfway around the world, so far removed from all of this she was surprised he'd heard anything at all yet. "S.H.I.E.L.D. is compromised."

Another silence, then, "How?"

"Infiltrated." 

The seconds ticking by were agony. She wished she could see his face. She _needed_ to see his face. She didn't know all of his secrets because she didn't ask. If she did, he could try and hide them but she didn't think he would. Not from her. Not if he was the man that she thought he was. But now even that was in doubt. 

She gripped the phone so hard her knuckles turned white, silently pleading with him to say something, anything, to reassure her that they were still on the same side, that they hadn't managed to take everything from her, that in a world thrown into chaos she would at least still have him. 

"Who?" he asked, his voice dropped low now like he thought someone might overhear. 

Where was he? Was there someone around? Was she going to get him in trouble? She had to trust him that he would keep himself safe from any threats that might be on his end, like she'd always trusted him to have her back when she needed him.

But she couldn't trust him. Not completely. Not yet. (She refused to think about the possibility of 'not ever'. There was a strong chance that forever wasn't going to be very long anyway.) "You know who."

"What?" Confusion. Feigned? She needed to see his _face_ , damn it. He couldn't hide things from her (unless he was a better liar than she'd ever imagined and everything up until now was a deception) when she could look into his eyes. "N—I don't know what you're talking about."

"You do," she said. "Don't lie to me."

"I never have," Clint said, but that was a lie right there, because she knew that he had, that there had been times when he'd had to. "Not when it mattered. Not if I could help it." His voice had gone gentle, almost pleading, and he sounded like himself, sounded like the man she'd trusted, the one who'd saved her life more than once, the one in whose arms she'd actually allowed herself to feel _safe_ even though she knew that it was, in the end, going to get her in trouble.

"You know," she insisted. "Don't play games with me."

"I don't," Clint insisted. "I swear that I don't."

"You swear on what?"

"On my life," he said. "That's what's at stake here, isn't it?"

Would she kill him, if it turned out that he was on the other side? Could she? She wanted to believe that the answer was yes, that she would be able to look at him like any other threat and neutralize him when the time came. But there were only so many lies she could stomach in a day and she already felt sick with them. 

"I swear on us," he said. "I swear on everything that we have. Everything that we are. Is that enough?"

"I don't know," she admitted. "I—" She glanced at her phone, at how many minutes had passed, and they didn't have many more, and there was too much and nothing to say at this point. "I need to know whose side you're on."

"I wish I could see your face," Clint muttered, and she almost choked on the sudden lump in her throat. "I'm on your side. Okay? Yours. Always." 

"I have to go," she whispered, her voice a rasp.

"Stay safe," he replied. "Keep me posted."

"I'll try," she said in answer to both things, not sure if she was lying or not. "You too."

"I'll see you soon." It was not quite a question.

"I hope so," she said, not actually meaning for the words to be spoken out loud, but there they were, and she hung up and hoped that her precautions had held and no one had managed to tap into the call. If they had, Clint might be in danger. More danger than he already was, if he was telling the truth and he was really on her side.

But he hadn't said he was on S.H.I.E.L.D.'s side, had he? He'd said _her_ side, and maybe that meant he thought that she was working for HYDRA, and so was he, or maybe he meant...

Maybe he meant exactly what he said, and his loyalty to her superseded his loyalty to anything and anyone else. 

Did she want that to be true? She honestly wasn't sure. She wasn't sure she wanted that kind of responsibility.

She wasn't sure she didn't. Not if it meant she wasn't alone. Not if it meant they hadn't managed to take away everything that mattered to her, everything she held dear. 

Natasha looked down at the necklace in her hand, frowning. But had they? Even if he _was_ on her side, had they taken him anyway? Because how could she ever completely trust him again? How could _he_ trust _her_? 

Questions she should have asked came to her then, but she dismissed them. She couldn't have asked where he was, because he either wouldn't have been able to say, or he would have lied. They were trained not to give away that information. She should have asked who was running him, but the truth was even if he had answered (and he probably wouldn't - _couldn't_ \- have), unless he said Fury (which was basically impossible) there would be no way for her to know for sure which side the agent was on, and even if she did know that, it didn't mean that _he_ knew, and...

Her thoughts chased themselves in circles, faster and faster and getting nowhere until she was dizzy. She heard footsteps in the hallway, low voices, and she closed her fingers around the silver chain she held.

_Make a choice, Natasha,_ she told herself. _You have to make a choice. It's only life or death._

He'd been sent to kill her. He'd made a different call. 

It wasn't everything. But, she decided, it was enough.

She fastened the chain back around her neck, felt it settle in the hollow there, the only arrow that had ever touched her, because he'd made the decision to give her the benefit of the doubt back when she didn't even know how deep that doubt ran.

And now here she was, all over again. 

Steve came into the room and she did her best to put on a mask, to hide what she was feeling, to not give away just how shaken she was. It was impossible to keep up the walls completely, but if she could have, it would have just looked suspect anyway. 

She didn't tell him about Clint. He didn't ask. She wondered if it even occurred to him. Maybe it was better if it didn't. 

_Run the mission,_ she told herself. _Don't get killed. Save the world._

*

She didn't go with Fury. He offered, and she declined. It would have been the easy way out, to just keep following, to accept orders and not have to accept the consequences along with them, because whatever she did she'd done on the behalf of some higher authority. 

But she knew she couldn't live that way anymore. Her past, all of it, all of her dirty little (and not so little) secrets were out there for the world to see, and orders or not, she would be held responsible for what she'd done. Maybe not in the court of law, but in the court of public opinion, and she told herself she didn't care, but it was impossible not to on some level.

Try as she might, she could never be that cold.

So she struck off on her own to put herself back together, find a new identity since all of her covers were burned, figure out who she was when she wasn't following orders. 

Clint sent her messages that she didn't respond to. 

**Where are you?**

And the next day: **Are you safe?**

She thought if she ignored him he would stop. She thought that was what she wanted, or what she needed, or what she ought to do. 

But he'd never been good at taking a hint. A few days later: **I found us a place.**

_Us._ The word struck her like a punch to the gut, like the world around her had been abruptly robbed of air, and her eyes watered like she'd really been hit. (She refused to believe that they were tears.) 

_Stop,_ she wanted to send back. _Please stop._

A day passed, then two, then three. She thought maybe he'd finally decided to give up on her. She didn't let herself think that it might be something more dire than that. She didn't let herself think about the fact that, while she was ignoring him (but thinking about him constantly) he might have gotten himself into trouble, or that someone might have found him. The target on his back might not be as big as the one on hers, but that didn't mean it wasn't there.

On the fourth day, her phone chimed again with a message from him, only two words, but two words that were enough to shatter the illusion she'd attempted to create that she was okay by herself, really: **COME HOME.**

She touched the tiny silver arrow at the hollow of her throat and tapped out a response: **Tell me where to find you.**

He was waiting outside when she got there, empty-handed and barefoot, looking slightly disheveled like he'd just woken up. But he smiled when he saw her, and stepped aside to let her in. As soon as she stepped into the apartment she sized it up, looking for possible threats and escape routes. It was a habit that she doubted she would ever break. She doubted she would ever even try. She saw his bow and quiver in the corner, but he made no move toward them.

Otherwise, the place looked empty, like he'd only just gotten there and hadn't had a chance to settle in, which was probably the case. She took her gun from where she'd had it hidden in easy reach and set it down, trying to show trust that she didn't quite feel, and it wasn't about him entirely. 

"I found it," Clint said. "This place. They never knew anything about it."

"That you know of," she pointed out.

"That I know of," he conceded. "I've checked it over, though. Found nothing. We can check again."

So they checked the place again for bugs or anything else that might indicate that this place wasn't as safe for them as they wanted it to be. While she was at it, Natasha searched for anything that might indicate that Clint – her best friend, damn it, she hated that she even had to think about the possibility of it – was anything other than what he said he was. She didn't try to hide it from him, and he didn't try to stop her. They stayed within sight of each other at all times so that neither of them could try to conceal anything.

When they'd scoured every room (which didn't take long, there were basically only three, since the kitchen was barely separated from the living room, and the place was small to begin with) they finally looked at each other fully, up and down, searching for concealed weapons maybe, or trying to reassure themselves that the other was in one piece or...

"Say it," she whispered. "Swear it."

Clint reached out, took her hands, placed them over his heart and held them there. "I swear it, 'Tasha. I didn't know anything about this, and I haven't played any part in it that I was aware of."

His heartbeat was steady, and so was his voice, and his eyes on hers. He wasn't lying. 

When he let her hands go, she fell into him, her arms tight around him and her face buried against his neck, and she didn't cry, although she wanted to sob with relief. No, she just shook. She shook with so many days of tension finally surfacing and escaping, and he held her there, held her up, just held her, until she was steady again.

"Are you hungry?" he asked. 

She shook her head. "Kiss me," she said. "Take me to bed."

And he did, and she thought that she could lose herself in that, thought that she could find comfort in raw physicality, but the minute he tugged off her shirt, revealing the new scar (which she hadn't mentioned), and his eyes had gone wide, flicking to her face in question, she knew she couldn't.

"It's okay," she said. "I'm all right." 

"It's not even completely healed," Clint protested. 

"I know," Natasha said. "But it will."

He let himself fall onto his side next to her and reached out, his fingers ghosting over the skin there, not touching the wound, but tracing her collarbone and shoulder, her upper arm, everywhere around it that was safe to touch. "Does it hurt?"

_No more lies,_ she told herself. _Not here. Not now._

"Yes," she whispered. "It hurts."

But she wasn't really talking about her shoulder (although it still twinged and ached if she moved it the wrong way, and it might do that for a while yet, although the doctor had declared that she'd gotten lucky and the bullet hadn't damaged anything that might permanently affect function or range of motion). 

Clint slid closer, so that their bodies touched in more places than not, and his hand cradled the back of her neck now, stroking the hair at the nape with his thumb, rubbing in a gentle circle to ease the tension that she carried there. "What can I do?" he asked.

She shook her head slightly. She didn't know. 

"Okay," he said, and then nothing else, and they stayed like that until Natasha couldn't stand the stillness, the sweetness of the way he looked at her, the way he held her and demanded nothing, and she tried to figure out who she was to him, who he expected her to be, and she couldn't, and that scared her.

_No more lies._

"I don't know who I am," she said. "Everything, all of my secrets, all of my past, is out there for the world to see. Everyone knows who I am, or thinks they do... except me."

"You are who you've always been," Clint said. "This doesn't—"

"No," Natasha interrupted, too sharply. "No, I'm not, because who I've always been has been whoever the person pulling my strings has wanted, needed me to be. I... even my past, my memories, even those I can't be sure are mine, are real. They might have just been implanted there to suit someone's purpose. Who I am, who I was, who I could have been... maybe that all got erased somewhere along the line, and..." She choked on the words, on the doubt, and shuddered. 

"Then... then you get to decide now," Clint said. "You get to decide who you are. This time, you get to write your own story."

"It's not that simple," Natasha said. "The things that they said I did – that's all true. You know that it's true. It doesn't get erased just because everyone knows now."

"No, it doesn't," Clint said. "Just like what I did under Loki's influence doesn't get erased just because I wasn't entirely myself at the time. It's still there, it's still a part of me. But it's what you do now that matters. It's what you do going forward. You saved so many people, 'Tasha, back in New York, and now. Whatever history says, you're a hero. You did what had to be done, even though it was hard, even though it hurt you, and now... now we pick up the pieces."

She looked at him, eyebrows up. "We?"

"I worked for them, too," Clint said. "Do you think I'm not questioning every mission I was sent on, everything I was told? You weren't the only one that was lied to."

She hadn't really thought about it, but then she'd always thought of Clint as one of the good guys, always. Why would he have to question his actions? He'd been sent to kill her, after all, and he'd chosen not to, because it didn't feel right, and look where they were now.

Unless... did he feel responsible for her, and the things that she'd done? Did he regret...?

"Natasha," he whispered. "Hey. Don't. Don't lose yourself in those dark places."

She blinked, focused on his face, which was only inches from her own. "I'm trying," she said. "But..."

"It's hard," Clint finished for her. "I know. But you're not in it alone, and that's something, right?"

Yes, it was something, but was it enough? Could it be enough? Could she? Because she didn't know who he wanted her to be. Maybe at first she'd known, or thought she'd known, but things had changed over the years. Things had shifted and grown and she'd shifted and grown with them, away from who she'd been programmed to be, and maybe...

Maybe with him she'd been herself? Maybe with him she was as close to her own person as she'd ever been. With him she hadn't just been filling in the blanks of the outline that someone else dictated. He'd needed a partner, and she'd been that, and there were certain aspects of that that were prescribed, but then they'd become friends, and she hadn't known how to do that, not really, but she'd figured it out, and then...

Now...

"This is home?" she asked.

"If you want it to be."

She'd never had a home before, never had a family. She'd been shaped and molded by the places she'd been and the people whose purposes she served, but it wasn't the same thing. It wasn't even remotely like the same. So if she had to start over, if she had to recreate herself entirely, there were far worse places to do it than here, where, if nothing else, she was loved.

"Yes," she decided. "I do."


End file.
